


Falling, Falling into Your Heart, Falling, Falling into Your Waves

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Collars, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Wanna be yours, Chanyeol had confessed to him. Want to be owned by you. Want you to use me up. Wants it always. Needs it always.





	Falling, Falling into Your Heart, Falling, Falling into Your Waves

**Author's Note:**

> i finally finished a second xiuyeol, hooray for me!!!!  
> please enjoy

“Is this okay?” Minseok asks, and his fingers skip over the solid leather band of Chanyeol’s choker, then loop beneath it, test the give. 

Chanyeol swallows, blinks, shudders as he follows the movement with his entire body, moans shakily, too. He takes two beats to answer, swallows, shudders. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is already low, already nearly ruined. 

“This, too?” Minseok asks, tugging just the slightest, slightest bit more, but enough for Chanyeol’s breath to hitch, his heart to skip, his skin to prickle with need. 

“ _Yes_.”

Minseok tugs once more, even harder, and Chanyeol topples forward with the force of his need, forehead crashing against Minseok’s thigh. He nuzzles into the warm, solid muscle, and Minseok’s other hand pets softly through his hair, fingers ghosting along his scalp. 

Chanyeol shudders, parts his lips with a moan, less soft, less quiet, more fraying need, his lips catching on the creased wool of Minseok’s pants. It makes him more painfully, painfully aware of how naked he is, how dressed Minseok is, how prone and helpless and small and vulnerable he feels like this, kneeling on the floor in front of him. 

His knees and cock and heart _ache_. 

“So good,” he adds, swallowing again, blinking up at him again. Haloed by the fading blue of twilight, Minseok looks like an _angel_. 

Minseok’s fingernails prick along his throat, the nape of his neck, and his satisfied hum has arousal trickling down Chanyeol’s spine, settling in his gut. His eyes are soft, but his smile is sharp. And fuck, fuck, fuck—

Chanyeol gasps again, buries it into Minseok’s thigh. And Minseok’s fingers loop around, tug on his earlobe, fingers cradling his jaw. Chanyeol wonders—absent, drunk, dazed— how much longer it will for him to be fully hard, how much until Minseok is hard, too. Until Chanyeol is burning, burning, burning for more, hyung, please. 

Wanna be yours, Chanyeol had confessed to him. Want to be owned by you. Want you to use me up. Wants it always. Needs it always. 

Because like this, Minseok is so looming and strong and imposing and heartbreakingly handsome and so, so heartbreakingly perfect, exactly what Chanyeol most craves. And he’s painfully, painfully aware of it now, Minseok’s control, Chanyeol’s possession. Just just exactly as he’d requested. 

Minseok’s fingers are still looped around the leather band, and he tugs again—testing, testing, hot, hot, hot. Chanyeol's lips drag against the starched fabric, tremble around a dark, deep, desperate, desperate moan. And his mind is already hazing just the slightest around the edges, desire honey-thick and achingly hot as it pumps recklessly through his veins. 

Minseok’s blunt fingernails scrape against Chanyeol's quivering throat, bright, sharp, hot, hot, hot. 

“Still okay?” he asks, and Chanyeol feels drunk with want as he nods shakily against his leg, face scraping over stiff fabric in his eagerness to convey his want. 

Minseok’s other hand curls around, too, skims his parted, trembling lips, and Chanyeol sucks Minseok’s thumb into his mouth, licks succulent and slow over the pad of his finger. 

Minseok’s throat bobs with a low, low groan. 

His eyelashes are so, so dark, his eyes even darker. And his teeth skim his bottom lip as his fingers strokes at the band. Hot, hot, hot, headily approving. 

Minseok’s presses down his tongue, his fingers skipping in the meanwhile over his jawline. And Chanyeol digs his fingers into his own thighs, trembles into the gentle grounding weight of Minseok on his tongue, on his throat, wants, wants, wants—everywhere, everything, needs, needs, needs. 

“Wanna,” Chanyeol manages around the thumb in his mouth. “Wanna—wanna suck you off. Is that okay?” he asks, echoing Minseok’s words. Then. “Please.” Then rougher. “Hyung, please.” 

He loves the little tremor in Minseok’s fingers, on his face, around his collar, loves the salty headiness of it on his tongue. 

“Yes.” And oh, the indulgent, fond, fond rasp of his voice.

Chanyeol stumbles over the button of his fly, slides the zipper down with his teeth, nuzzles immediately into the musky heat bleeding through the soft cotton of his briefs. Lets the ridge of his cock drag against his cheek, burn against his parted lips, gasping helplessly as Minseok tugs incrimentally harder, tighter, more breathtaking. 

Chanyeol peels Minseok's briefs with his teeth, too, mouths hungrily at his cock, savoring the heat and the heft and the quiver of him as he drags teasingly along Chanyeol’s parted lips. He curls his tongue around the engorged, pulsing, pulsing head, whimpering helplessly at the fleeting, teasing, teasing caress. 

He swirls his tongue just to watch Minseok shudder, just to hear the low, low rasp of his moan. Shudders, too, Moans, too. Wants, wants, wants. Needs, needs, needs. 

_Is this even for me_ , Minseok always teases, because Chanyeol is so vocal. So eager. Such an easy boy. Enjoys it just as much, maybe even more. Loves it most when he has Minseok trembling and moaning and panting and coming—just, just, just for him. 

And he whimpers in relief when Minseok cradles his face, shifts his hips, slides, finally, finally, fully inside. It's heavy, sharp, musky, hot, hot, hot, the burst of Minseok on his tongue, thick, thick, thick. 

And Chanyeol is greedy for it, the weight, the girth, the heat, the taste, the aching pulse, hyung, hyung, hyung. For the way saliva pools in his mouth, slides out of the corners of his lips, the way his lips and jaw ache at the stretch. And the quiver of Minseok’s clothed thighs, the tug of Minseok’s fingers in his hair, around the leather band of his collar, the heavy, heady approval dancing through his veins as he smooths his fingers up the column of Minseok’s thighs. 

He slides forward, back, succulent, slow, slow, sloppy, and Minseok moans, arches, pushes, pushes, heaves, thrusts. 

“My Chanyeol,” he pants, shifting his hips minutely, trembling, trembling, trembling, pushing forward again. Just slightly harder, just slightly, slightly deeper. Then once more. His silken shirt tails are Friday evening-wrinkled, graze Chanyeol's overheated cheeks, wrinkling further, further, and the muscles beneath Chanyeol's greedy palms ripple and tense with every slow, measured, perfect, perfect thrust. “My Chanyeollie.” 

Around his throat, his collar burns like a brand. Like a _mine_. And Chanyeol needs to suck more pretty sounds out of him, needs pretty words, too, pretty praises, just more, more, more, hyung. Everywhere, hyung. Everything, hyung. 

It’s for him, for Chanyeol, it’s always for him. 

Thrumming with the urgency of his own deep, dark, desperate longing. Have me. Have me. Have me. Mark me. Bruise me. Hurt me. Brand me. Use me. Own me. Own me. Own me. 

And Minseok’s words, these quiet, shaky, breathy little things—so good, so pretty, mine, mine, mine—are barely audible over the slick, sloppy sounds, they rattle through his trembling body, wanting, needing impossibly more. 

He gorges, gorges, gorges, meets Minseok’s subsequent thrust. And the next one. And the next one. Chokes. Tears. Gags. Wants. Needs. 

Blinking up at him blearily through his teary eyelashes, choking around the heaving, perfect weight on his tongue, he braces himself, begs, whimpers, please, please, please—harder, faster, more, please. Mine. Mine. Mine. 

Minseok steadies him, pushes, pushes, pushes, takes, takes, takes until Chanyeol can't, can't, can't—

And it’s for Chanyeol, for Minseok, so, so, good for them both, the way he pushes in until Chanyeol can’t breath, can’t think, only be a pliant, beautiful thing for Minseok to use and own and please, please, please, hyung. 

Owned and filthy and vulnerable and perfect and so, so, pretty, perfect, perfect, Yeollie, Chanyeol blinks past the blurriness obscuring Minseok’s perfect, perfect face, the perfect, perfect ruin. 

He gropes downwards to stroke himself off, tight and fast, thumbing at the pulsing crown as Minseok coos, cradles, slams over and over again. 

He nearly comes when Minseok wrenches him back by the hair—sharp, sharp, arresting—holds him there with his head twisted back and his throat exposed and every muscle in his body, taut, taut, taut with anticipation and desire. Whimpers instead. Kneads into Minseok’s tense, tense thigh instead. Waits instead. 

Gasping, Chanyeol blinks past the tears matting his eyelashes, greedy, greedy, for me, for me, for me, hyung, hyung, _please_. 

And above him, looming and breathless and flushed and and so, so hot, Minseok strokes himself. There's a stark beauty to it, an elegance to the languid, luxurious twist of his fist. Beauty, too, in the fine, fine cracks in his composure, the tremble of his fingers, the heave of his belly, his throat, the crinkle of his eyebrows, the quaver of his moan. And his cock, most beautiful of all, flushed and heavy and saliva-slick and so, so close he can still nearly taste it with every aching pulse of his heart. 

Chanyeol parts his lips in anticipation. Knead. Waits. Whimpers. Begs. Own me. Like this. Please like this. 

Minseok comes with a soft tremor, a softer moan, streaks hot and wet across his cheeks, his eyelashes, dribbling down his throat, congealing just perfect and hot and wet on the leather of his choker. 

Weak, shaky, shaky, Minseok gropes out for him, kneading into the nape of his neck, and Chanyeol is crashing forward messily, biting helplessly at Minseok's thigh.

Minseok pets his fingers through the mess of his hair, then around to his cheeks, his throat, smearing, burning, tugging, just once, just barely, and Chanyeol is lost to an explosion of heat and pleasure and mine and hyung, hyung, hyung.

**Author's Note:**

> a belated kim minseok birthday fic, a oneforyourfire tradition


End file.
